‘I don’t want to know how much, that doesn’t interest me… and I’m not thinking about you, because you’re rich…’ and he smiles as Calabrese lifts his hand to deny the fact. ‘No… everyone here says so. Rather I was thinking about where Zanetti found the money. He doesn’t seem to be rich, and no one has said he is…’
Calabrese gestures agreement. ‘Actually it was a surprise for me too, and yet that’s what happened. He played football for two years, for Modena and he even had a trial for Bologna, who at that time were in the first division… but he certainly didn’t make his money in football. Everyone knows that…’
‘And this absolves you from all possible lack of discretion.’
Calabrese nods, seeming to appreciate Cataldo’s understanding.
‘But it’s certainly a bit of a mystery,’ Cataldo continues. ‘I visited his house today. It doesn’t look to me as though he’s filthy rich…’
‘Did you see Katia as well?’ asks Calabrese suddenly.
‘Of course.’
‘Was she on her own?’
‘Yes. Why?
‘Nothing. I just wondered.’
But Calabrese is confused, ill at ease. And Cataldo has an idea, which he decides to pursue.
‘What do you think of Zanetti?’
‘We’ve been friends for many years… we even sat together at school.’
‘And as a man?’
‘He’s a lucky man… yes, he’s been lucky in life.’
‘And Katia?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Is she your friend too?’
‘Do you think,’ and the ironic vein in his voice is, all things considered, respectful, ‘that this is of any importance?’
‘Do you?’ is Cataldo’s response, in exactly the same tone. And since Calabrese says nothing: ‘So, is she your friend?’
He seems to look through Cataldo, then he moves his head slightly and lifts his hand to his mouth. Cataldo does not rush him because he already understands.
‘You’re in love with her, aren’t you?’ he says, almost whispering. ‘Ever since your schooldays?’
He nods yes, as though ashamed. Then he whispers: ‘We have no control over the duration of a love, just as we have no control over the duration of our lives.’
‘I know who said that. But those who have only dreamed of love cannot talk of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because in the end we only know what we are, or what we live.’
‘That may be.’ And he looks at Cataldo now in a different way, with a note of irritation. ‘You might be right. But remember one thing. For those who are patient, not every wait is a defeat.’
It rings almost like a judgement and Cataldo is about to ask him what he means, when the telephone in the entrance rings. Calabrese goes to answer, turning the wheels of the chair and soon Cataldo hears him say, ‘Hello?’ Then the voice is lowered immediately so he cannot hear from the living room. Cataldo gets up and moves towards him, moves past him, opens the door and waves goodbye. Calabrese stops talking, covers the receiver with his hand and says:
‘Nothing else, Inspector?’
‘Not for now, no. If I need to, I’ll be back.’
And as he walks towards the car, Cataldo thinks it is a shame he has no idea to whom Calabrese is speaking, and that it is the second time in the last few hours that he has had that regret. The phone. It’s always the phone. And then in the silence, his hand in his pocket to look for the key, he is not surprised by the ringing of his own mobile as it interrupts his thoughts. And in the warm evening he hears the voice of Arletti, the medical examiner, loud and clear as though he were standing there. It is the post-mortem: it is ready, but they had best talk about it face to face. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, in Modena, in the coroner’s office. It is urgent. Cataldo agrees.
He starts the engine and feels more relieved, without any real reason. He is just waiting for some new fact, something to provide the impetus that will help get past this moment of stasis, of inertia. And before he pulls away he takes another look at the house, at the window, the light behind the glass, the curtains closed. And there is Calabrese’s face, watching him, with a grin. Or rather, a strange, angry grimace.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Some certainty
Now he wants to get a move on, to avoid the heat that is already building up. At nine in the morning the sun scorches the car upholstery and glares brightly as it reflects off the house windows. In the garden of a villa he is parked next to, there is a girl on a deckchair, soaking up the sun with her eyes closed, as if she were at the seaside.
As if she were at the seaside, yes. The sea at Catania, from the road, the sea just beyond the beach. And this vision conjures up images, gestures. Sudden flashes in his memory. Who knows how long they had been building up inside.
They had walked higher up on the sand, because the sea was a little rough and waves were occasionally breaking higher up the beach, towards them. That was the last time, on the seafront at Ognina. Then they had gone out on the jetty, to talk. Below them the tide dragged slowly on the green stones and strands of seaweed fluttered just below the surface. The day was coming to an end, and with the setting of the sun the warmth was dissipating too. They were moving into the coolness and the calm of autumn. The moon alone gave a warm light, almost a summer light…
Last summer, one year ago, near Acireale. There before them were some rocks that looked like ruined walls, rising out of a sea so blue and calm it seemed solid. No trace of wind at all, just a seagull, in silence, which completed a long glide over a boat before resting on its prow, like a figurehead. Why had that remained in his head?
He shakes himself, looks at the road. And now a sense of fatigue comes over him, as though the flow of life had suddenly stopped. And he, too, wants to stop, to close his eyes in all that light. Just like the girl sunbathing. Perhaps she is even beautiful, who knows?
It is even warmer in Modena. Arletti seems to be feeling it too, despite the white linen suit, the same one he was wearing yesterday. His hand is damp when he shakes Cataldo’s and from close up Cataldo sees there are two or three drops of sweat on his forehead. There is another man there and Arletti introduces them to each other, surprised that Cataldo already knows him.
‘Dr Zironi, from forensics…’
‘Ciao, Luca. How goes it?’
‘Same as ever. Work.’
‘You’ve been dragged into this too, then?’
‘I’m helping out.’
He is a small, bony man, older than Cataldo and with the bad-tempered look of someone chronically ill with cynicism and indigestion.
‘So, colleagues,’ begins Arletti, as he always does, ‘we have the preliminary results of the post-mortem. Time of death between nine and ten o’clock on the evening of Tuesday 23, as I had predicted… remember?’
‘Of course.’
‘Straight line of fire, close contact entry wound to the right temple, slit-like exit wound to the left occipital wall. The contact shot can be seen from the burnt skin around the first wound. Bullet travelled through the skull completely – instant death, etc. etc. But you already knew all that.’
‘Quite,’ says Cataldo.
‘But now comes the real surprise, and it’s best if he tells you about it.’
So Cataldo turns to the small man who clears his throat and he knows he is about to say something important and will say it in very few words.
‘It wasn’t suicide.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ And he pauses, almost as though savouring the shock. ‘Ballistic examination of the pistol confirms it.’
‘Tell me.’
‘The Beretta next to the dead man really was his and it had been used to fire a shot.’ Another pause. ‘But the bullet we found in the room doesn’t match.’
Cataldo would like to ask if he is sure, but he knows that Zironi will let him know. In the meantime he rubs his nose with two fingers, as he always does when he suddenly
has to think about something.
‘I mean, it doesn’t match the striations, the linear grooves produced by the barrel. You know how we do this, don’t you? We fired the Beretta into a soft target, recovered the bullets and compared the grooves with the grooves on the one in the room…’
‘And they don’t match?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Incontrovertible proof.’
‘That’s right. No two ways about it. The barrel striations are like an identity card for a pistol. And with the electron microscope there’s no margin of error at all…’
Now Zironi looks at Arletti, who nods. ‘And then there are two other things.’
‘Yes?’
‘In a suicide the direction of the bullet track is usually oblique. I mean, from below upwards, when people shoot themselves in the head…’
‘Right. Here it’s the other way round… and the other thing?’
‘The other thing is that there is always some soot, or non-combusted residue on the hand that holds the gun… on the palm, on the back of the hand, on the forearm…’
‘And the dead man?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So it’s murder.’
‘Exactly.’
Cataldo looks at Zironi, thinks for a moment, then decides.
‘So what do you think happened?’
Zironi likes the question, which promotes him from being a technician to being an interpreter of the mystery. ‘Well, okay… it could have gone like this: the murderer must have had a Beretta just like the victim’s and he entered easily because the victim opened the door for him. I was told there were no signs of forced entry, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So he was either a friend, or he wasn’t but they had an appointment. Once inside he shot the victim in the temple while Zoboli was sitting down, standing by his side, as the doctor mentioned…’
Arletti confirms with a nod of his head.
‘And then?’
‘Then he took the dead man’s pistol from somewhere and put it on the desk, near his head… using gloves, of course, having fired a shot with the pistol, who knows where. Maybe out of the window…’
‘That’s possible,’ says Cataldo, evidently thinking it through. ‘An isolated house, his wife away… perhaps even the television on. Few people if anybody at all would have heard the shots…’
‘And then he wiped the prints off, if he’d actually left any that is. If he wasn’t using gloves right from the beginning.’
‘Unlikely, with this heat. And in that case Zoboli would have been suspicious from the moment he let him in… by the way, any news on the fingerprints?’
‘Not really. Only the victim’s on the Beretta, but if the murderer used gloves that makes sense. In the entrance though… just a minute… to be precise, on the light switch and on the wall, just a few centimetres away, there were prints from someone else. But who knows how long they’d been there, and who they belong to.’
‘Are they clear prints?’
‘Some of them, yes, they’re visible. Others are superimposed and rather mixed up.’
‘I see. Thanks.’
He has been efficient and very precise. As always.
‘Do you have any other questions?’
‘One. Has anything ever stumped you?’
His lips trace a slight smile on his face: ‘Yes, once. In my second year at primary school.’
‘I would have bet on that.’
In the silence the doctor’s dry laugh rings out.
Cataldo drives slowly on his way back to Guiglia. And in the meantime he thinks, with the radio off. The hole in the wrong temple leads him to think it was someone Zoboli did not know, someone who had no idea Zoboli was left-handed. Indeed, someone like Marchisio. But at least two things do not add up. Firstly, a stranger, turning up whether unannounced or by appointment, could not have known that Zoboli owned a Beretta 7.65, necessary information to go there with an identical pistol and organize the whole setup. No, he could not have done that. But it was worthwhile testing something out.
Marchisio again, in front of him in the small room that looks out on the courtyard, the same room in which he had spoken with the owner. Every now and then the muffled noises of the hotel come to them – tables being laid for lunch. How many times has Cataldo gone through this performance – feigning irritation, loading his voice, looking straight in the eye, all just to make the trick plausible?
‘Any questions, Inspector?’
‘Just one. Why did you lie to me?’
‘Me? When?’
‘When you told me you’d never been to Zoboli’s house.’
‘But it’s true. I told you that because it’s true.’
‘You did visit him.’
‘Who says so?’
‘A witness.’ He stares. ‘A reliable witness, who lives opposite Zoboli, on the other side of the road.’
There is a bit of unease in his voice when he replies, but it lasts just an instant:
‘And you pull this witness out now?’
‘I’m not pulling him out. He’s come forward now of his own free will. And do you want to know what he saw? Either way, I’m going to tell you.’ The tone of his voice becomes harder, firmer. ‘He saw you go through the gate after nine o’clock.’
‘The timekeeping’s a bit vague. After nine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which, surprise surprise, will also be the time of death… you know, this sounds like a bluff to me.’ He stands up, takes a newspaper from the table, indifferent. But Cataldo sees that he is faking it.
‘It’s no bluff, believe me. And there’s a way for you to get out of this. Are you prepared to give me your fingerprints, to compare them with the prints found in the villa?’
‘Found where in the villa?’
‘Well, let’s see… in the entrance, for example… on the light switch.’
‘Prints, eh?’ And he looks at his hands. ‘When?’
‘Immediately… it’s in your own best interests.’ And since he hesitates: ‘You’ve never been in there, right? So you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I repeat, it really is in your own best interests…’
Marchisio’s fingers fidget nervously, creasing the newspaper. Cataldo waits, because the job is almost done.
‘You’re right. I went there.’ His voice is an embarrassed murmur now.
‘And why didn’t you tell me straight away?’
‘Fear. I was scared because…’
‘It doesn’t matter now, just carry on.’
‘I met him on Tuesday afternoon, I told him I was writing a book on a topic he knows about. I asked him for advice, information.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He was kind right from the start. He said he had time, that his wife was away and he could help me immediately. So he gave me an appointment for nine thirty.’ He looks at Cataldo before adding: ‘I know what you’re thinking. No, he didn’t recognize me. I’m sure.’
‘Or at least you think he didn’t. And then?’
‘I arrived on time, and you can imagine all the rest. The gate was open, the door was ajar, the light was off…’
‘Just like in a thriller.’
Marchisio ignores the irony: ‘I switched the light on, I looked around a bit and then I found him. Dead. I got scared then…’
‘Of what?’
‘Of an ambush, a trap… of being set up. Just like all those years ago. And so I ran away. Don’t you understand?’
‘Just calm down now.’
He had raised his tone for a moment, but Cataldo’s voice reminds him that they are not alone, and brings him back to a minimum of courtesy.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘But it’s the truth. I swear it’s the truth.’
‘Just like when you swore you’d never been in there…’
Marchisio says nothing, his ears bright red. But within himself Cataldo knows that it all might just be true. He knows that a man who lives i
n fear does not change over the years, even years spent in jail.
‘You can go. I’ve finished.’
Marchisio gets up and heads for the door. Then he turns, almost as though he wants to say something, but he says nothing. He leaves the door open. Cataldo moves to close it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fear
They wait in silence, all three of them, and they have no idea why he has asked them to come. That is why they are so tense, embarrassed. During the wait, feeling uneasy, they sit down after a while and now they look at each other furtively, lowering their eyes when they meet another’s gaze. Miriam and Katia are sitting at the table, close to each other, but without touching. Miriam’s head is bowed, completely motionless. Ramondini from the very beginning chooses to stand near a window, his hand on the glass, as though looking for some support. Then, perhaps a bit surprised not to have noticed it before, he starts looking at a copy of a famous oil painting: Dalì’s Les Quatre Elephants, hanging near the door. In the end he sits too, the last to do so. The splendour of the bookshelves, with the warm oak and the ivory of the books, the stuccoes and the inlay, and the cool half-light in contrast with the muggy heat outside, at once both assuages and exacerbates the fear they all feel.
Ramondini is the most visibly afraid. He is slouched now in the honey-coloured leather armchair behind the desk. He holds his hands in his lap, and perhaps it is not fear, but just the afternoon heat that makes them sweaty and makes him wring them continuously. His eyes are fixed, no feeling in them, nothing. They do not change expression, not even when his lips force themselves into a smile. He controls his gaze, making his eyes run over the other people in the room, without ever letting himself catch their eye. But it does not take much to see that he is afraid.
‘Why do you think he’s asked us to come here?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
In the tangible tension that envelops them all, any attempt at making conversation drowns and silence returns. A silence thick with uncertainty, doubt. And suspicion.
After a while Don Lodi enters, and the women start to get up, but he gestures, telling them to remain seated because they will begin immediately. Only Ramondini insists, clumsily, and offers the armchair, the priest’s usual place, while he takes a place halfway along the table, opposite the window. Don Lodi clears his voice and starts.
Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer Page 10
